


Different Shores

by jellyfishline



Category: Free!
Genre: Angsty but not really, Australia, Canon Compliant, Gen, M/M, season 2 episode 12
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-26
Updated: 2015-08-26
Packaged: 2018-04-17 07:50:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4658529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jellyfishline/pseuds/jellyfishline
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If there's one thing Rin hates about Haru, it's that he has no idea, no idea, just how amazing he is. Rin would give anything—plane tickets, Olypmic medals, his own arm—just to make him understand.<br/>(in which Rin wakes up first, and takes a shower.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Different Shores

**Author's Note:**

> This is sort of a companion piece to my fic, _Different Stars_ , only this time it's Rin's POV. You shouldn't have to read that one to understand this one, but I did try to echo some of the imagery in this.

Rin wakes first.

The dawn is a cool gray, barely a whisper in the curtains. Haru sighs in his sleep. He's noiser than Rin thought he'd be—twisting limbs, heavy breaths. When Rin woke, Haru was almost on top of him, legs between legs and drooling on Rin's pillow.

Needless to say they didn't stay in _that_ position for long.

Haru's a heavy sleeper—heavy enough to stay slumbering even as Rin detached and half-rolled, half-fell out of the bed. He hit the ground with a thud and a yelp loud enough to make himself wince, but Haru snored right through. Kept snoring as Rin gathered his clothes and a clean pair of boxers and marched into the bathroom to brave the uncomfortably clear glass shower. He feels strangely exposed as he stands under the water, letting the heat strip the chlorine from his hair. But being naked under glass isn't the reason he can't stop glancing over his shoulder, a feeling furitive and frightening nipping at his skin.

The night comes back to him in bits and pieces. The words are snippets tip-tapping in time with the droplets smattering his forehead, but inverted—fighting to get out of him, hammering his skull, pushing his tongue against his teeth in effort of holding them back. There's a hole in him where a dam used to be, and now it's all rushing, pouring, bleeding out of him and running with the water at his feet.

He takes a few deep breaths.

_I don't regret it_ , he tells himself fiercely. “I don't regret it,” he says aloud, in English, because Haru's a heavy sleeper but Rin doesn't want his subconscious to hear this somehow. The words are quiet anyway, slipping down the drain to be recycled, someday, somewhere down the line.

He doesn't regret it. It was true—all of it was true, and important, and Haru needed it. Rin's pretty sure Haru needed it. He had to say it, anyway, because sometimes the doubts and the truths in Rin's head are so loud he forgets that other people can't hear them, and it all comes out in fits and starts of screaming and backwards and messy and not to the people who need it most. But now it's out there. It's out there, the ball's in Haru's court, and it's up to him to choke or take it.

Rin's done his part.

But it's a strange feeling. Because _doing his part_ doesn't mean Rin's usual hit and run of emotional responsibility—dump his feelings on a stranger, spew his guts out on the floor and then make for the hills when the aftermath, the choking chest-heavy shame of _oh shit what did I do why did I screw it up AGAIN_ comes back to bite him. This time, Rin has to come out of the shower. He has to swagger back into that bedroom and tell Haru _good morning_ and _get your shit together_ and probably laugh at Haru's bedhead while Haru gives him that 'I am above all petty human concerns of personal hygiene' stare. For practical reasons if nothing else; he can't just abandon Haru in a foreign country, much as a scared, stupid part of him might want to.

But it's more than that, too. Rin can't abandon Haru because just can't. For one thing he tried that, didn't work, felt too guilty and Haru came back anyway. Haru's stuck on him, like a leech—or maybe it's the other way around, maybe Rin's the parasite nipping at his heels, fighting for a taste of that greatness that Haru carries around inside him without seeming to know or care that it's there. If there's one thing Rin hates about Haru, it's that he has no idea, no idea, just how amazing he is. Rin would give anything—plane tickets, Olypmic medals, his own arm—just to make him understand.

Which is, of course, why Rin doesn't regret it. Because Haru can't see himself at the best of times—spends so much time under the water that he can't look at his reflection—but if Rin can just tell him, just make him sit down and _look_ , maybe he'll be okay.

He has to be okay.

At this point, Rin doesn't even care what Haru chooses. Well, he does care, he cares a lot, and no matter what happens he's always going to keep chasing that feeling he had that day in the relay with Haru beside him, egging him on without saying a word. But pro swimmer or not, Olympics or not, weird guy with a water fetish or not—Haru is Haru. And Rin knows that he never, ever wants to be without Haru again.

No, he doesn't need to be around the guy all the time—definitely doesn't need to wake up with Haru's drool on him, thanks—but he doesn't ever want to feel like Haru is out of his reach. Those years in Australia were the hardest of his life, and it wasn't because his swimming sucked or the language barrier turned out to be a language blockade—not really. It was because he didn't have friends. He didn't have Haru.

(And he's not going to think about why he's not grouping Haru under 'friends.' Haru is Haru. Haru doesn't have to make sense.)

So Rin doesn't regret it, and he's not afraid of Haru quitting swimming—not afraid like he would've been a year ago, afraid for his own selfish sake—but his head's still pounding and his face is still flushed and he still feels like facing Haru this morning will be the hardest thing he's done in ages.

Could be guilt. Rin still hasn't told Haru the big news—that after graduation he's coming back here and staying for at least another year. He tells himself that it's because he just hasn't had the opportunity, that he wants to wait until Haru has settled down a little to drop the bomb on him, and that's all true, but it's also true that Rin is scared shitless.

Part of him is afraid that Haru will be devastated. That he'll see it just the way he sees Makoto leaving for college— _abandonment_ and _betrayal_ and _hurt_. But at the same time, Rin knows that Haru won't see it that way. Because Rin's never been what Makoto is—Haru's translator, Haru's babysitter, Haru's best, oldest, closest friend. Not that Rin's jealous. There's no reason to be jealous.

But in his heart, the thing that really scares him, that dries the words up on his tongue before they leave his mouth, is that Haru won't care. That maybe Haru really has gone where Rin can't reach him. That Rin could say _I'm going to Mars on a twelve-year voyage_ and Haru would just shrug and say _whatever_. In Rin's sick, selfish head, he'd rather Haru hated him than felt _indifferent_.

But these are old thoughts—old as their friendship. Older, even. Rin's always been afraid of being forgotten. And he's always tried his damnedest to get under Haru's skin, even back when they first met and Rin thought it might be possible to make it an uncomplicated friendship rather than this bizarre mess of sparring and longing and hating and caring. It's all old fears, and somehow the old fears just don't sting like they used to.

Weirdly, none of it matters. He doesn't feel that weight behind his shoulders, slowing him down and tripping him up. He's not paralyzed by guilt or so furious at himself that he feels like tearing off his skin. Whatever trials are coming, Rin's weathered worse. And however fragile Haru is, he's still strong. Stronger than Rin. Haru will find his way back to himself, Rin knows, and feels something like optimism at the thought.

Rin's not that scared kid anymore. He knows better than to try and fix his footprints in the sand, to obsess so hard about leaving his mark that he forgets to move in the first place. He's not standing at some strange shore, mouth agape and arms thrown wide, trying to catch a glimpse of some faraway home.

Rin knows where home is. He can find it in Melbourne and he can find it in Iwatobi and he can always, always, find it in the water.

His fingers are starting to prune. He shuts off the water but lets himself stand for a minute, dripping, as the steam curls off his shoulders. He feels—and it's strange to think it, but it's the only word in his head now— _free_.

He doesn't regret it. He's a little embarrassed, but that's really all it is. That's all, and he'll move past it soon enough. He just has to keep going. Like when he first started training and his arms ached with fatigue but ached even harder with the desire to push himself, to keep going, to break limits. He's not going to run away anymore. Not from his problems, and not from his friends.

Not from Haru.

When Rin gets out of the bathroom, Haru's already up. Fresh clothes on, hair a mess, standing, blinking in the light of the newly opened curtains like a deep sea creature making first contact with the sun. 

He turns at the sound of the bathroom door. His eyes are still guarded, but already, Rin can see a bit of that old spark in their depths. Like something is waking up, deep inside him. Like all he needs is one last, hearty shove out the door into the unknown.

“You ready?” Rin says.

Haru looks away. Takes him a minute to give a short, curt nod--because that's Haru, never giving an answer unless it has plausible deniability as a trick of the light. Rin understands him anyway. He and Haru have always stood on opposing shores, but the truth is, even a thousand kilometers of open ocean couldn't keep Rin from diving in to cross the distance.

If there's one thing Rin knows how to find, it's a shoreline.

**Author's Note:**

> Ugh I have edited this for two days and I'm still not happy with it. Well, I'm putting it up anyway. I hope it's at least mostly coherent. I don't think I've really nailed down Rin's voice yet, though part of that might just be that this is one of the few moments in canon when Rin isn't a curled-up ball of angst and self-loathing. This ended up so much more optimistic than I was expected, omg.


End file.
